


Put a Sweater on It

by dogeared



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Declarations of Intent, Hugs, M/M, Sharing Clothes, Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't want it to be a big deal, exactly, but he doesn't want it <em>not</em> to be a big deal, like, hey, so I found this old abandoned sweater and no one had gotten around to throwing it out yet and of course I thought of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put a Sweater on It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amberlynne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberlynne/gifts).



> amberlynne: only you would send me an email about putting a sweater on the hot shirtless guy  
> amberlynne: and then send me an email later with a link where he is shirtless and heaving

It starts with the pool. Or after, really, when they're all standing around and Stiles is dripping and shivering, track suit clammy against his skin, every single one of his muscles twitching and starting to ache, and all he can think about is getting somewhere safe and warm and dry where he can collapse and nothing bad will happen when he does. And maybe it's because he just spent two hours in Derek's very close proximity, but Stiles can't help watching him and trying to puzzle out the look on his face—angry and scared and drawn and kind of helpless and alone underneath everything else—and he catches himself wondering whether he has an extra hoodie or something in the Jeep, wondering whether Derek would take it if Stiles offered it to him. But then Derek is snarling and stalking off, and Stiles is edging into exhaustion, so he waits until he's pretty sure Derek's out of earshot to crack a joke about smelling like wet dog, just to make Scott laugh and shove him and pretend like everything's normal.

 

Not much in Beacon Hills is ever normal anymore, though. Stiles has his hands full watching Scott's back, and making sure he's around for dinners with his dad more nights than not, even if it's just takeout, and trying his hardest to not end up in the ER, or worse. He can't say the same for Derek, though, who's always getting himself torn up, his clothes wrecked and bloodied, and the flesh and bone underneath, too, before it knits itself back together. 

Stiles is watching it happen right now—Derek's slumped against the Jeep's bumper in a terrible imitation of tailgating, and it's gross and cool at the same time to see the shredded muscles in his shoulder shift and bind and become whole again. Even after he's healed, though, Derek stays hunched in on himself, like maybe it still hurts, or he's cold, or he wishes he were somewhere, or someone, else. Stiles watches him for a minute more, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, and then he swings around and opens the passenger door, dives across the seat and stretches to root around underneath until he finds it—his favorite sweatshirt, the one that was his dad's before Stiles commandeered it. It's old and soft, the lettering faded and the big pocket stretched out just right, and it's the thing he's wrapped himself up in at the end of pretty much every bad day he can remember.

"Yo," Stiles says, before he launches it at Derek's head, and Derek barely manages to snatch it out of the air before it hits him in the face.

"What's this?" Derek's looking at it like he's trying to figure out the joke, and Stiles rolls his eyes and wonders how successful he'd be if he tried to just wrestle Derek into it.

"It's the best sweatshirt in the world, okay? Put it on." And, amazingly, Derek does, threading his right arm in gingerly and ducking to slip it over his head. It's a little big, the frayed cuffs hanging down over Derek's knuckles.

Derek shifts his shoulders, and he doesn't look like any kind of threat at all when he tucks his hands into the pocket in front and tips his mouth up halfway into a smile. He looks different, _comfortable_ , and something warm and wanting uncurls in Stiles's belly.

When Derek says, "Thanks, Stiles," and pushes off the bumper and turns to go, Stiles surprises himself by saying, "Keep it." It reappears on his front seat a few days later, though, folded up into a neat square.

 

The warm curl doesn't go away, and Stiles gets a little obsessed with the idea of Derek and comfort—just because you don't allow yourself any, or can't be bothered, doesn't mean you don't need it, right?—and he lets the thought of it tumble around in his head, like a smooth stone in his pocket he can worry at.

He finds the sweater in the lost and found box that's been tucked behind the front desk at Beacon Hills PD for as long as he can remember. It's plain and utilitarian, no tags and a sort of ordinary gray, but it's soft and sturdy and whole, and it doesn't smell funny or have any odd stains. He gets it dry cleaned anyway, and then he asks Deaton whether it's possible to exorcise a piece of clothing, just in case. Deaton laughs at him and gives him an envelope of powder that Stiles half-suspects is mostly ground black pepper, especially after he sniffs it and it makes him sneeze, but he's choosing to believe in it anyway.

 

It maybe takes Stiles a while to give it to Derek, though. More than a month of Stiles's heart revving up and the back of his neck flushing hot every time he's in the same room as Derek while the sweater stays stuffed down in the bottom of his backpack. He doesn't want it to be a big deal, exactly, but he doesn't want it _not_ to be a big deal, like, hey, so I found this old abandoned sweater and no one had gotten around to throwing it out yet and of course I thought of you. Because that's definitely not the message Stiles is trying to send, here.

Scott comes across it by accident, digging through Stiles's bag looking for a pen, and Stiles takes way too long trying to explain that, what, he figured that all their favorite grumpy alpha werewolf needs is a fuzzy sweater? Scott just looks at him funny, and then he tells Stiles to hurry up and do something about it, already, if it's that important.

So Stiles does, finally, after he's dragged out the task of reshelving some borrowed books to ridiculous lengths, taking more time and care than he ever does putting them back one by one on the little bookshelf tucked against the wall. He's aware of Derek moving around in his periphery, and then there's nothing left but the sweater at the bottom of the bag, and Stiles says, sudden and too loud, "Hey! Derek, uh, hey, here, this is for you."

It looks kind of pathetic when he holds it out, a crumpled lump of gray wool, one sleeve dangling free, but Derek comes close and takes it from him. He immediately buries his nose in it and takes a couple of deep sniffs, and Stiles knows for a fact that it still smells fresh, but he's suddenly worried about his weird gift being rejected—and then Derek _is_ giving it back, saying, "Hang on," and jogging over to the corner of the loft where his bed is. 

When he comes back, he's pulling on a fresh t-shirt, and Stiles sees a flash of skin, Derek's chest and belly, before he's finished smoothing it down. "This one's clean," Derek says, like that's an explanation, and then he's tugging the sweater out of Stiles's grasp again and pulling it over his head in one easy motion.

It fits him, and it _fits_ him. Derek looks softer, somehow, his rough and prickly edges smudged and smoothed, and it's exactly what Stiles wanted, and there's no reason at all to feel disappointed.

"Okay?" Derek asks. When Stiles nods and moves closer and reaches out, he really just means to pluck off a piece of lint, but he ends up with his hand resting on Derek's flank, feeling the warmth of him bleeding through the sweater, feeling the way his ribs move when he breathes. Derek doesn't say anything or do anything or go anywhere, just stands there, quiet, with his uncanny gaze on Stiles, like he's waiting to see what happens next. Stiles puts his other hand on Derek, because if they're playing a game of hug chicken, there's no way Stiles is going to back down—except that Derek wins, Derek totally wins, because his arms fold around Stiles easily, just like that, and he doesn't let go, and Stiles feels wrapped up and warm and safe, and the curl in his belly dips into a roller coaster swoop, and oh. Oh. So maybe it turns out that _this_ is exactly what he wanted.

 

"Umm," Stiles says eventually, because it's not like he's ever known how to quit while he's ahead, "so does this mean I get dibs on getting you out of this sweater again?"

"I don't know," Derek says, and Stiles is distracted by the dark sweep of his brow and eyelashes, by the halfway smile that's back on his face and the splay of his palms on either side of Stiles's spine, keeping him close. "It's pretty cozy. You might have to convince me."


End file.
